


Arco

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Holmescest smutty fiku-miku [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, No Underage Sex, Post-The Final Problem, Sexually charged violin playing, Sibling Incest, but also pre-, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock plays the violin for Mycroft whilst having sex with him.





	

They never talked much. Words were needless and the noise would interrupt the harmonious melody played by Sherlock. The string of sounds produced even by the most intelligent human beings could not convey as much meaning as music.

 

Sherlock remembered how it started. Christmas 1990, he was almost seventeen and torn between the urge to be self-sufficient and the longing that began when Mycroft moved out. He wanted to hide how much he had missed his brother, yet when asked, picked up his violin and played the uncomfortably sorrowful tune. Mother reminded him that it was a joyful day, Mycroft remained silent. But he observed Sherlock and noticed mistakes that had to be corrected. Sherlock had a tendency to raise his right shoulder, tense up and support the violin with the heel of his left hand. To make matters worse, he was not aware of the first two. Overcoming such bad habits was problematic even for him, the temptation to ignore the risk of injury was strong. Someone had to keep an eye on him, someone perceptive and patient.

For a couple of months, Mycroft would visit them mainly to watch Sherlock play. Mummy was delighted, her two sons for once did not fight. She was right, there was no open conflict between the brothers, not when they both focused on improving Sherlock's technique. He struggled to keep his left wrist relaxed and his shoulders even. The brief moments when he succeeded did improve the sound quality enough to convince him not to give up. He did not expect to draw such perfect sounds from his instrument and was determined to make the change permanent. He practised and practised under Mycroft's supervision, played and played, feeling Mycroft's eyes on him.

Soon, he encountered an unexpected problem. He discovered that the task keeping the proper posture was less complicated when he was alone. It was the company of his brother that distracted him. Whenever Mycroft was with him, watching him closely, an entirely different kind of tension would take over Sherlock's body. A subtle vibration in the very specific part of his anatomy, the growing need to... touch or be touched, to feel and not think. Defining that new, thrilling feeling did not stop Sherlock from playing for Mycroft. Their eyes would meet sometimes when Sherlock glanced at him while slowing the movement of his right hand. Mycroft, always so unreadable and secretive, did not conceal his emotions. He let Sherlock see the real Mycroft, let him deduce what he desired and decide what could be done about that. Without a hint of hesitation, Sherlock suggested visiting him in London. There was nor real privacy in their family home. Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock knew what was about to happen. On the train, he was clutching the violin case to his chest, the nervous anticipation was unbearable and exciting. No one would interrupt them to ask how it was going and whether or not they wanted tea. Mycroft was waiting for him at the station, leaning on his umbrella. 'Sherlock,' he greeted him but did not touch him. Even in the flat, the distance between them was still too great for Sherlock's liking. He could only do one thing, play as best as possible, hold the violin firmly but carefully, the fingers of the left hand steady on the fingerboard. He closed his eyes to focus on the sound and hide from the watchful gaze of his brother. And yet he caught himself falling back into bad habits. When he finished, he feared the reward he expected was going to remain a dream. He was still holding the violin and the bow when Mycroft gave him the proper incentive. The kiss was slow and tender enough to help him relax. Without a conscious decision, he parted his lips and shivered when Mycroft's tongue slipped in. The knowledge of what they were doing, what kind of line they were crossing only made Sherlock want it more. He imagined it would be searingly hot, blindingly intense, but the gentle pace, the soft touch of Mycroft's lips gave the kiss a strangely sweet taste. Sherlock's hand darted out to Mycroft's arm to hold him close and only after a moment did he realise he had dropped the bow. Mycroft pulled away. 'Pick it up and try again'.

Instead of returning to his chair, Mycroft stood behind Sherlock, covered his left hand with his own to keep it in the right position. Sherlock tried with all his strength not to disappoint him and accept his assistance, yet the closeness, the warmth of Mycroft's body complicated the already laborious process. 'Don't tense so much,' Mycroft said, the palm of his hand pressed on Sherlock's shoulder. 'One more time.' Sherlock played and cringed at every mistake he made. Mycroft sensed his frustration and lowered his hand, down Sherlock's side until it rested on his hip. Mycroft stroked his hipbone with his thumb, alternating soft and hard touch. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to concentrate and not to break the bow. The pads of Mycroft's fingers traced patterns on his wrist, his breath was hot on Sherlock's nape. He could not stop now. He didn't want Mycroft to stop either.

Sherlock worried the correction of his improper posture could take years. Fortunately, Mycroft's dedication and encouragements sped up the lengthy process. The positive reinforcement he offered was worth the time spent on perfecting each and every movement. The most believable lie allowed Sherlock to see his brother more often without arousing any suspicions. No one needed to know whose hands wandered all over his body while he played the violin. The memory of Mycroft caressing him, rubbing him through the fine fabric of his trousers was only his and Mycroft's. The challenge of following the instructions despite the urgency of his arousal and the hardness digging into his thigh seemed impossible at first but practice makes perfect.

 

* * *

 

The tumultuous year that began with Magnussen's death and ended with the revelation of the secret, murderous sister changed a lot in Sherlock's life. One of the few things that were constant, even in such stressful times, was playing for Mycroft. 

The bedroom was illuminated only by the silvery moonlight. The music seemed more powerful in the dark, sounds reaching deeper and lingering for longer. Mycroft was leaning against the headboard, feet flat on the bed and the front of his thighs supported Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock, nude, completely exposed, remained graceful, the elegance of the well-practised gestures was compelling. He was sitting in Mycroft's lap, joined with him intimately, back straight. He held the violin under his chin with confidence and drew the bow across the strings. His original composition that no one but Mycroft had ever heard expressed more than he could ever say. His grip on the instrument was steady bu gentle, similar to the way Mycroft's fingers were wrapped around his erection. Unhurried strokes were not aimed to bring him to a climax, not yet. The touch of Mycroft hand anchored him, reminded him to focus on the task while every part of his body urged him to rock his hips, lift and sink down again, bent forward just slightly to stimulate his prostate and forget about the violin altogether. What he was experiencing at the moment was almost as good as that fantasy. His legs, folded on either side of Mycroft's thighs squeezed him almost as hard as the way his inner muscles clenched around the shaft moving inside him. The thrusts were still shallow so as not to interrupt Sherlock's playing. Sighs and moans were quiet enough not to ruin the melody.

On occasion, Sherlock kept the violin and the bow in his hands the whole time, all the way through his orgasm. His entire body would go rigid and then tremble, he would stop the music but neither drop the instrument onto the mattress nor crush it in the uncontrollably hard grip. That kind of self-control was the result of a lot of hard work and two broken bows. Sherlock would keep his hands as lax as possible and to fight the instinct to close his fingers around something, anything, he would shut his eyes and sink his teeth into his lip. Not this time, though. Mycroft smoothed his fingers over Sherlock's stomach to get his attention and gave him a nod. The music stopped abruptly, Sherlock handed Mycroft the violin and the bow, watched him carefully set them on the bedside table.

Mycroft sat upright, arms around Sherlock's middle, not allowing him to move away. Sherlock had no intention of doing so, on the contrary, he clung to Mycroft's chests and grasped his shoulders. Mycroft was not as fragile as the violin, Sherlock desperately clutched his back, raked it with his fingernails, grabbed folds of skin and pinched. Mycroft retaliated by attending to Sherlock's violin hickey. Sucking and nipping, while pleasurable, made it look like a typical hickey, forcing Sherlock to later cover it up with a scarf. Mycroft did not know it but Sherlock would often touch that spot, particularly when he was not alone. No one suspected what he was hiding, a mark of incest.

There was nothing gentle about the way Mycroft held him, both hands on his arse, squeezing roughly and spreading the cheeks to make Sherlock take him whole. The feeling of complete fullness was so blissful that nothing could possibly stop Sherlock from throwing his head back and moaning. Mycroft wasn't going to waste the opportunity and his mouth was again on Sherlock's neck, kissing the sensitive spot, dragging his tongue across it. Sherlock squirmed, feeling trapped, caught and played like a violin. Mycroft knew where to touch to elicit a desirable reaction and resistance was the last thing on Sherlock 's mind. It was not the right time for sibling rivalry or petty fights, not when they were so close.

They moved together, Sherlock faster than he wanted. He always hoped to make it last longer, stop the time and keep the waves of pleasure coming. Mycroft had other plans, his harsh, short thrusts pushed Sherlock closer and closer to a mind-numbing orgasm. It felt that way, his orgasm, it numbed his mind, cleared it of all thoughts. For a long moment, he felt suspended in the air. Until the familiar sensation of throbbing deep inside him brought him back, just in time to feel the warmth of Mycroft's release.

It was never going to change, he thought when they delayed the moment to untangle their limbs. He would always play the violin for Mycroft.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about violins but I tried and have no regrets.


End file.
